Fairness
by Wyrmhero
Summary: Renarin was always a sickly young child, the sort of person that his father's friends wanted to protect. But that's not what he wants. He wants to be a warrior, to stand by his father and his brother. It's all he's ever really wanted. Unfortunately, the world just isn't fair. Words of Radiance spoilers, unsurprisingly.


"No," Zahel said in his gruff voice. "That's wrong."

Renarin lowered his Shardblade, and lifted up his Shardplate's visor. A thin mist emanated from his face as he did so, and he blinked at how the light refracted off it. "What am I doing wrong, Swordmaster?"

_Killkillkillkillkillkill_

He winced. The voice wasn't going away. He looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of where it was coming from. It was as though it was coming from inside his own head and not, all at the same time.

"Look at me when I'm instructing you," Zahel added, though he didn't raise his voice. He simply had a manner that made you listen. It was kind of strange. "Storms, lad, you're more green than any recruit I've ever seen."

_Killkillkillkillkillkillyou-_

"You said it was a good thing," Renarin replied, sinking his blade into the ground and willing it to remain. He breathed a sigh of relief as the voices stopped. Maybe he just thought he was unworthy of it, and his mind sabotaged any attempt to make use of it? He shouldn't have one. His father should have kept his plate, and been given the first blade. Not a useless boy with bloodsickness and glasses.

"I said that because I thought I might be able to impress some skill in you," Zahel said, hefting the blade he wielded onto his shoulder. It wouldn't cut him as long as he wielded it and commanded it not to, but considering it wasn't his blade, it was a rather dangerous move. All he had to do was lose his concentration...

But Zahel was an ardent for a reason. He wouldn't be distracted that easily, even if he claimed he was one of the worst ardents in existence.

"You're afraid of it," he said, raising an eyebrow at the boy. "That won't help. You need to trust your blade. You trust your plate, don't you?"

Renarin nodded hesitantly. Of course he did; Zahel had ordered him to jump off the rooftop for an entire day before moving on to anything else. Besides, it didn't accuse him of murder every time he touched it.

"Why not?"

That was a question Renarin couldn't answer. How could he say 'the voices in my head scream every time I pick it up' without appearing mad? He'd be locked away with the man that his father had recently found, for his own safety if nothing else. It would be a weakness his father couldn't expose, not with Sadeas acting as he was.

"I don't know," he eventually said, his voice as timid as his body felt when outside of his armour.

Zahel sighed and put his free hand to his face as he muttered to himself in the strange language he spoke. "Again," he said, raising the blade up in Windstance.

Renarin nodded and lowered his visor, the mists sealing it shut. He picked up his blade, wincing as he did so. His shoulders tensed.

_YOU KILLED ME_

He too settled into Windstance, his blade almost perpendicular to his body, ready to move quickly out of the way of his opponent's sword and retaliate. It was a good stance for a Shardbearer - The plate made you faster, defended you, and the sword meant you didn't need much power behind each strike to have a lasting effect. Of course, against another Shardbearer, it wasn't anywhere near as overpowering for opponents.

Zahel moved quickly, his Shardblade becoming almost a fluid as his strike aimed for Renarin's neck. The blow wouldn't kill him; his plate would fracture long before it would let a blade through, and then they'd stop.

The swordmaster didn't need a plate to move quickly. Through whatever power the Almighty had granted him, he matched Renarin's hasty block and deflected the young boy's blade down into the ground. Then his fist came round and struck Renarin's visor.

He stumbled backwards, his ears ringing, his mind ringing and his eyes seeing bright colours in his daze. His Shardplate stopped him from falling over, but his hand had already let his blade go, and it disappeared into mist. The next strike stopped just short of his chest, and Zahel looked at him with disapproval in his eyes.

Then he sighed and placed the blade in the floor, as Renarin had done a few minutes previously. "You're not a fighter, Renarin," he said, looking at the boy. "I don't think I could ever get you red enough for a battle."

Renarin looked down. His fists clenched at his sides. Zahel was right, he knew that. He was just being stubborn. What was the point of this? All he was doing was wasting time, his and Zahel's. All he'd do in a battle would be to put his father or brother in danger, like the time when he'd ridden out into a battle with a Chasmfiend.

It was this damned blood-sickness, his epilepsy. His father never paid attention to them, but he knew about the whispers in the court. Calling him weak, useless. If it weren't for the fact that the family resemblance was clear between him and Adolin, he was sure that there would be comments on the nature of his mother's fidelity. At least he didn't have to endure that.

His skills weren't in fighting. He was a thinker, if anything. A poor thing for a man to be, in the Alethi culture, but there was no use hiding it. He didn't understand people, but he could understand glyphs and numbers. His father had suggested becoming an ardent, learning engineering, but he didn't want that. Aside from the fact that he would technically become someone's property, he didn't want to be confined like that. He wanted to be useful. Perhaps aunt Navani could-

He noticed Zahel was looking at him. There was concern in his eyes, and it seemed more than mere concern for his lord and master. But then, he felt that sort of thing back home as well, before coming to the Shattered Plains. He was the sort of child that people grew concerned about, since he was always ill. He gained sympathy, but never respect.

"I'm... I'm fine," Renrin said, in a soft voice. "I apologise, swordmaster."

Ten heartbeats was all it took to summon the deadliest weapon in Roshar. It seemed almost unfair, really. But then, so many things about him being a full Shardbearer were unfair; what was the nature of the weapon themselves compared to that?

_KillkillkillyoukilledmeYouKilledMeYOUKIL-_

Renarin dropped the blade. It vanished in the mist.

"Take a break," Zahel said.

"I'm fine, I-"

"I said take a break. If you were anymore yellow in the face, I'd send you back to bed with orders not to get up. Understood? We'll see how you feel later. No point in making you have one of your attacks."

Slowly, Renarin nodded. He didn't summon his blade again. He removed his helmet carefully. An ardent came over with a tankard of water, and he took it carefully, trying not to accidentally crush either the mug or the ardent's hand.

There was a bench available for people to sit down on when they needed a break. Not many people did, since the yard wasn't used for teaching people from the ground up, normally. People came in, perhaps to practice with the King's blade (or rather, his father's), and then left a short time after.

He was sweating quite a bit. Shardplate might make it easier to move, but he was still exerting himself severely. Exhaustionspren appeared around him, floating lazily in the breeze.

At least he hadn't had an attack today. Zahel was right about not pushing it, he knew that in his heart. And yet, it made him angry. Not much, since he was a gentle spirit, but it was just another reminder of the fact that he shouldn't have the shards.

The new captain of his father's guard had just entered the yard with some of his soldiers (friends?). They were wary, as they had the right to be. They might have been coming here for a few days now, but they still weren't used to it. They still expected to be kicked out suddenly.

Was that a strange light by the captain's - Kaladin's - head? It flittered around like a windspren, but seemed to be attracted to him. Then again, maybe he was just seeing things. Maybe he was dreaming again-

No.

He couldn't think about that. His father saw the past, and that was at least accepted by the ardents. There was no way he was going to consider the idea that he was seeing the future. That he wrote those things on the walls and no-one saw him. That his mind was breaking apart like that.

He shook his head and looked down. Deep breaths. That was the key to calming down. Deep breaths and clearing your mind. He didn't want to work himself up, after avoiding an attack in the first place. With luck, he'd get stronger as he exercised like this. With luck, he'd become useful to his father, like Adolin was.

Zahel called for a second Shardblade, and one was duly brought for them. The five of them stared at it for a time, each of them looking between each other to see who would go first. It was a greed that Renarin had seen all too often; most recently, with Sadeas.

Eventually, the other four looked to their captain. His father would have liked this: a clear display of deferral, and a strong leader. They'd picked well, when it came to Kaladin. His brother might not like the man all that much, but he personally couldn't see why. Adolin was just a little suspicious after Sadeas' betrayal, that was all.

The ex-bridgemen (not a job he ever wanted. Not just because of the death rate, but because he couldn't see how he could ever survive even a gentle bridge run. Even with his Shardplate) took it in turns to wield the guarded blade and strike at Zahel.

The fight was rather unfair, even if you didn't consider the fact that the darkeyed soldiers would never have trained with a sword before. The ardent simply displayed the skills that made him a swordmaster, and the blade didn't come anywhere near to scratching him.

Renarin had always liked watching Adolin's duels, imagining himself in the ring with his brother as they dispatched a pair of Shardbearers together. Even now, he could watch a simple spar like this and consider what would be done. Flamestance into Vinestance and then striking to force Zahel into a poor block.

But it was one thing to fight, and another to watch. He could only see how the duel should flow due to watching a duelling master such as Adolin for years. ...No, there was something else there as well. The more he watched, the more he could see how the duel would go. Not in the sense of Zahel winning, but _how_ he would win.

No. He was foretelling again, predicting the future. He had to stop. It was heretical. He wasn't a Voidbringer. He knew that. After all, he'd know if he was one. ...Wouldn't he?

He closed his eyes and forced himself to ignore the rest of the duels. When he opened them again, it was Kaladin's turn. As usual, the man refused the Shardblade. That made Renarin smile. At least he wasn't the only one who didn't trust them.

Maybe Kaladin heard the same voices he heard, the ones shouting and screaming about him. Why else would a darkeyes not want to touch a treasure worth more than kingdoms?

_You should talk to him._

That voice. He usually heard it screaming. He looked around, but couldn't see its source. Was that the first time he'd heard it say anything than the mantra of accusation he felt when he wielded a Shardblade? He didn't know. He couldn't think.

And if he accepted that idea, went to talk to Kaladin, what did that mean about the rest of what he had heard? Did that mean that he accepted that he had killed... whatever it was the voice was? Did he accept that he could calculate the future, and all the heresy that implied? What was the right decision? Should he talk to his father?

No, his father had too much on his hands at the moment without worrying about Renarin. He was just hearing things. His mind was just playing tricks on him again. He forced his mind back to the duel.

It was rather elegant, the way Kaladin moved. Surprising, for a darkeyed man wielding a spear, but it was true. Perhaps Kaladin had trained from a very young age? Though come to think of it, if Kaladin was from a military family, he'd probably have shorter, or at least neatly tied, hair.

That light was back again. It danced on the edge of his spear and around him, whirling around as Kaladin fought, and was pushed back by, Zahel. There was an intensity to the duel, so much so that the other occupants of the yard watched. It was made even greater by the fact that Kaladin fought Zahel with no shards, and with Zahel's sword unguarded.

_Spren._

That voice again. The light? It was a Spren? Was that what the voice in his mind was telling him?

_Not a voice. A friend._

Great. Now it was getting worse. It was becoming _friendly_ with him. Now he'd never get rid of it.

Kaladin was knocked to the floor by a sudden strike from Zahel. The captain scowled at Zahel, perhaps thinking he was doing better than he actually was, but it didn't last. His soldiers - friends - helped him up, and one of them slapped him on the back with a laugh. A few words of encouragement from them, and he wasn't scowling. He wasn't entirely happy, but he was less angry with himself.

Maybe that was what he needed. Someone who could accept him for what he was. His father and brother always protected him. Aunt Navani was always disappointed he wasn't a girl, so he could be recruited for her fabrial research. His father's enemies saw him as a target, as a chink in his father's Stormplate.

But Bridge Four wasn't like that. They were all friends, forged from the Damnation-on-Roshar that was Sadeas' bridge crew. They were all different; Horneater, Alethi or even Parshman. Kaladin was a slave at some point, and the rest of them could have been murderers for all he knew. But they were friends, and they trusted each other.

It wasn't fair.

_Go to them_.

Horneater, Alethi and Parshman. Whether it was one of their own, someone from another country, or even a servant of a race possibly related to their current enemy, they were accepted. Perhaps they'd accept a lighteye as well?

He could only hope so.

He sighed and took a deep breath before standing up. He left his tankard on the bench, and replaced his helmet.

Zahel turned around, and nodded approvingly. "Are you sure, lad? I don't want to have to be the one to tell your father you had another fit," he said, just loud enough so the two of them could hear.

Renarin nodded, and took another deep breath. He summoned his Shardblade.

_KILLKILLKILL_

The screaming in his head might never die down. He might never overcome his sickness. He might never be anything close to an asset for his father. The world wasn't a fair place like that.

But that didn't mean he shouldn't try. It didn't mean that he should just give up like that and accept his lot in life. He could improve if he tried. The bridgemen were proof that one could rise; they went from slaves and criminals to the heroes of the camp. He could be a hero as well. He felt something inside him click. Something became _right._

"Journey before destination," he muttered to himself, before swinging at Zahel with his screaming blade.

The world might not be a fair place.

But that wasn't going to stop him.

* * *

I like Renarin. He's a very interesting character, and I can't help but feel a little sorry for him with how everything goes. It's kind of a shame we never got any viewpoint chapters in Words of Radiance, but I can understand why. It would have given everything away far too early. But in any case, here is my attempt to rectify that.

This is meant to be the time that Renarin makes his decision to join Bridge Four, in case you couldn't tell. It's... Interesting to write a character we know so little about, considering it means I can go in many directions with them. At the same time though, I hope he's recognisable as the quiet but intelligent and brave boy we know from the books. In any case, here's something I had in my head recently. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
